


Flowers in the Window

by rougewinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark!Mycroft, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Not to Greg though, Pre-Slash, crimeboss!croft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rougewinter/pseuds/rougewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is shot in the line of duty. Mycroft makes sure that the culprit learns his lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers in the Window

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Alphera](http://alphera.livejournal.com/) for being the mature one in this relationship. 
> 
> Title taken from Travis’ song, Flowers in the Window. 
> 
> This fic can be read as a stand-alone, despite it taking place in an alternate universe, where Mycroft is actually a Mafioso (or rather, THE head mafioso) and Greg is the detective in charge of getting to the bottom of Mycroft’s criminal empire. I’m still in the middle of working out the particulars of the gangster!croft AU out, but for now, please enjoy some protective, angry, crimeboss!croft.

Mycroft was sitting in the breakfast nook of the house, the warm Sunday morning sun streaming in through the bay windows as he tried to enjoy his meal. He sipped his tea in between the gazes he sent his phone, which rested beside his plate of blueberry scones, when his thoughts were disturbed by a soft yet stern voice.

“Are you expecting a call?”

Mycroft looked up at the older woman sitting in front of him, her hands laying still on the table between them as she regarded him with a level gaze. Even with her greying hair and the wrinkles on her face, she was still the most elegant and beautiful woman Mycroft had ever known, and it was unacceptable of him to disrespect her so.

“I apologise, mummy.” He said sincerely, turning his attention back to her, setting his phone aside and pouring her a fresh cup of tea. “I find myself…distracted.”

His mother gave a soft hum, nodding in thanks for the newly poured cup, before lifting the delicate china to her lips. “Does it have anything to do with your detective inspector?” Mycroft felt himself blush as his mother’s calculating gaze seemed to pierce the multiple layers he’s erected around himself. It was like he was ten years old again, receiving a dressing down for leaving Sherlock unattended. 

“He’s hardly _my_ detective inspector.” Mycroft said in his defence, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. He averted his gaze and took another sip of his tea, needing the warm beverage to soothe his worries. He was waiting for word back on the tail he sent after Lestrade, as he had received a tip that the case the detective inspector was working on was far more dangerous than what the Yard expected.

“Oh come now,” Mummy teased, which had Mycroft snapping his gaze back to meet hers in surprise. “That is most definitely not what I’ve heard.” The _‘from Anthea’_ didn’t need to be said.

“Tell me more about this man that seems to be making my boy happy.” 

Mycroft was ready to protest his mother’s claim but he realised that it was in fact, the truth. He looked at his mother, really looked at her, and tried to understand how she could have known, even before him, what Gregory Lestrade truly meant to him.

The knowing smile she tried to hide behind the rim of her cup told Mycroft that it was no use trying to decipher her methods. There were some things that mothers just _knew_ , it seemed.

He was in the middle of recounting how they first met when his phone rang, instantly turning his blood ice cold. If it was nothing important, Anthea would have just sent a text. 

“Where?” He said as he picked up the phone, prepared for the worst. He had already stood and was making his way out of his mother’s kitchen and into the foyer. 

“St. Bart’s, sir.” She replied, “The doctors are seeing to him, but they’re not optimistic.” 

It must have shown how affected Mycroft was because in the next moment, his mother laid a hand on his arm. He closed his eyes and composed himself, throwing her a weak smile in thanks. 

“I’ll be there shortly.” Mycroft managed to tell Anthea in a level tone before disconnecting the call and reaching for his coat by the door. 

“Come visit again soon, Mikey.” Mummy said as she wrapped Mycroft’s scarf over his neck, giving him a peck on the cheek as she walked him out the door. It was a testament to how distracted Mycroft was that he didn’t call his mother out for insisting on using her pet name for him. “and bring that darling detective inspector of yours. I’d really love to meet him.” 

Mycroft gave her a small, tight smile before nodding, and headed to the helicopter parked in the nearby field. 

\-- 

When Mycroft arrived at the hospital, Anthea gave him a quick rundown of the incident. 

Mycroft knew that Greg and Donovan were chasing after a suspect wanted for drug trafficking and money laundering. Like before, Mycroft had dropped the right clues to put Greg’s team on the case. It served the dual purpose of eliminating the competition and keeping Greg distracted from finding Mycroft’s own less than legal operations.

Looking back, Mycroft cursed his lapse in judgement. His knowledge of Antonov included the fact that the man didn’t know how to use a gun, but he should have anticipated that given the man’s unpredictability, Antonov would resort to pulling a gun anyway when backed into a corner. 

Now Gregory was undergoing a major operation, fighting for his life because Mycroft cocked up. 

“Donovan is in the waiting room, sir. Pacing.” Anthea said, still the consummate professional, but Mycroft could tell she was likewise shaken by the incident. Greg and Anthea had interacted only once before, but his personal assistant-slash-bodyguard had seen how much Greg meant to him that she couldn’t help but become attached to Lestrade too. 

When Mycroft said nothing, eyes staring straight at the double doors leading to the operating theatre down the hall, Anthea continued. 

“The doctors have been instructed to do everything in their power to save him.” The way Anthea phrased it meant she gave the doctors a very vivid description of what will happen to their loved ones should they fail. This was not the first time Mycroft found himself being immensely grateful to have her working for him. 

“And Antonov?” He asked, which made Anthea grin. 

“We’ve secured him in Warehouse Gamma, sir. Unconscious. At least for the moment.” Her smile faltered slightly when Mycroft only nodded and turned to leave. 

“I’ll let you know his status.” Anthea said softly.

“Please do.” 

Mycroft left in a more sedate pace than when he arrived, knowing that he had more than enough time to make Antonov realise what an absolute mistake it was to shoot Gregory Lestrade. 

\--

Mycroft was sitting across from Antonov, who was chained up between two metal pillars in the warehouse, when the common crook woke up. Mycroft had discarded his overcoat, scarf and jacket. His sleeves were rolled up and beside him was a table with a number of devices made for the specific purpose of causing pain. 

Mycroft watched over his steepled black gloved hands, as Antonov’s eyes fluttered open, the blond man groaning in discomfort. Mycroft looked on as realisation dawned on Antonov, noting the way the man struggled in vain to escape before finally realising there was no escape, breathing ragged as he glared beady hateful eyes at Mycroft. 

Mycroft, when he was sure of the man’s attention, rose from his chair, calm and fluid, and walked towards Antonov. 

He gripped the man’s neck tightly and squeezed, forcing the blond head back so he could look into Antonov’s scared eyes. 

“I should kill you right now.” Mycroft growled, tightening his hold on the man’s throat and shaking the other man. He waited until the man was gasping for air before letting go, and Antonov sagged against the restraints, coughing as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. 

“But,” Mycroft continued as he regarded Antonov coolly, knowing the imposing figure he presented, “I think you first need to understand just exactly what you did.” 

“Fuck you!” Antonov spat out, a glob of his spit hitting Mycroft’s well-polished shoe. Mycroft backhanded the blond man for the offense, satisfaction coursing through him at the way Antonov’s head whipped to the side from the impact.

“I don’t usually do _legwork_ ,” Mycroft said as he walked back to the table, picking up one fine instrument, holding it up and watching it glint against the light. “But for you, I’ll gladly make an exception.”

\--

Mycroft peeled off the soiled gloves when he was done and threw them towards the general vicinity of the other man. Antonov was bloody, bruised and limp against his bindings, but still alive, if barely. 

Mycroft started with the small, easily removable parts of the man’s body -- fingernails and teeth, before moving on to cutting up fingers and patches of Antonov’s skin. Mycroft was patient and thorough, observant of the other man’s reactions and adapting as he saw fit. He had an extensive knowledge of human anatomy, and he used it to his advantage, enjoying making Antonov scream.

He walked back to where he left his phone on the table, intending to call a team to clean up the mess, when his mobile buzzed with an incoming message. 

His heart jumped to his throat as he reached to unlock his phone. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he read the text. 

_Green._

\--

Greg woke up feeling like he swallowed a mouthful of cotton and with his head threatening to split open. He slowly opened his eyes, his vision blurry for a moment before they cleared to the image of Sally leaning over him, worry written all over her face. 

She offered him a cup of water and placed the straw by his dry lips. He took a sip and gave a soft sigh at the feel of cool liquid trickling down his parched throat. 

“I’d punch you if you weren’t already laid up, boss.” Sally said when she placed the cup back on the bedside table. Greg only half-listened to Sally’s grumblings, appreciating the concern behind her rough tone, but he was too tired to give her his full attention. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the bouquet of tulips and hyacinths on the table; the pale pink and purple-blue colours a soft contrast to the white walls of his room. 

Greg smiled when his eyes landed on the card affixed to the vase, a stark black **_MH_** on an elegant cream board.

Sally’s voice faded into the background as Greg closed his eyes again, a sense of contentment lulling him back to sleep.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Purple hyacinths denote asking for forgiveness.


End file.
